


across the bruised earth

by addandsubtract



Series: in the after [2]
Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-26
Updated: 2011-04-26
Packaged: 2017-10-26 01:19:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/276962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/addandsubtract/pseuds/addandsubtract
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I think,” Walt starts, and then stops. He’s staring at the wood grain of the table. Brad doesn’t sit, but he doesn’t move away. “I think it would be easier if the nightmares weren’t always about the same thing.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	across the bruised earth

**Author's Note:**

> written for this prompt by [little_missmimi](http://little_missmimi.livejournal.com) \- _brad/walt, "I'll reach into the depth of me and find a way to hold you."_

Brad knows, when he wakes up, that Walt’s been up for a while. He’s gotten used to Walt’s early hours at the bakery, enough that the movement doesn’t usually rouse him long enough to actually slide into wakefulness. He always knows, though, by the rumpled covers, the bathroom light shining in from down the hall, that this is going to be one of the bad days.

Walt is sitting at the kitchen table, a mug between his palms. The radio is on softly in the background, tuned to NPR even though Walt knows that Brad hates it. Brad stops at a right angle to Walt and reaches down for the mug. The coffee is cold, and too sweet.

“I think,” Walt starts, and then stops. He’s staring at the wood grain of the table. Brad doesn’t sit, but he doesn’t move away. “I think it would be easier if the nightmares weren’t always about the same thing.”

Brad doesn’t have the right words, doesn’t even know if there are any. “I know,” he says, instead, because, he does. He takes another sip of coffee, before placing it on the table next to Walt’s left hand, the one closest to him. He cups the back of Walt’s neck and rubs before he thinks about it, which, he supposes, is good. Normal. Walt’s skin is warm, and still a little tacky with the sweat that dried there after he woke. Walt leans into the pressure just enough that Brad can tell.

“I hate this,” Walt says, “I’ve ruined the day already and it’s not even nine.” He sighs, but doesn’t pull away the way that he would have six months ago.

“You haven’t,” Brad says, voice just as calm and cool as it ever is. He’s not naturally comforting. He’s relatively certain that he isn’t comforting at all. Still, he presses the tips of his fingers into Walt’s skin, and kisses him on the forehead, and takes the mug to the sink to dump out the old coffee. He fills it up with water to let it soak.

“Would you mind – getting me some things from the grocery store?”

“No,” Brad says. “Just give me a list.” This is the kind of day full of kitchen warmth and the smell of sugar and butter and chocolate. The worst days are like that. The days when Walt won’t say more than seventeen words, and Brad will read on the porch to stay out of his way, and tomorrow he’ll bring cookies into the base and not answer any questions about their origin. Some days are like this. They are fewer than they used to be, but more frequent than Brad would like.

“Thank you,” Walt says, and looks up. His face is worn, his eyes shadowed with sleep deprivation, but he’s not without hope. Brad can still see it lurking in the slight upturn at the corners of his mouth. Brad kisses him again, on the lips this time, and goes to put on his shoes.


End file.
